


the fragments that just won't hold (no matter how much you try)

by vreaa



Series: crumble, repair: a cycle (dream smp au) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dream Smp, Family, Gen, Ghostbur, Hurt/Comfort, No beta because I'm a coward, Pain, Realistic Minecraft, don't be fooled the comfort is only temporary, no one sees or hears ghostbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vreaa/pseuds/vreaa
Summary: "You didn't tell me thathe'dbe here." Tommy seethes, taking a step back.Phil frowns. "He's your brother, Tommy–""I don'tcare!" Tommy bursts out. His eyes are alight with a rage-fuelled fire. He turns his magma-hot glare onto Techno, and Wilbur feels something in him break. "He stopped being my brother a while ago."—Alternatively, Wilbur watches the remnants of his family come together and fall apart.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot
Series: crumble, repair: a cycle (dream smp au) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048815
Comments: 69
Kudos: 516
Collections: Dream Team Safespace Prompt Week 2020





	the fragments that just won't hold (no matter how much you try)

**Author's Note:**

> for my fav wifey [@aureahlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureahlin)  
> aka the first of three redemption fic dedis from winter prompt week
> 
> dtss winter prompt week  
> day two: **family** // road trip

Winter comes in a flurry of snow and wind. Wilbur doesn't feel it arrive, really, what with him being a ghost and all. The most he manages is the rush of air passing through his wispy form, the brief cold that overtakes him when snowflakes begin to land through him.

He's been hanging around Phil for a while, at this point in time. 

He's tried staying around his other family — Techno is simply too fast-paced, Tommy is too rambunctious and Fundy–

Wilbur has a feeling Fundy wouldn't want him around.

So he sticks by Phil. The sense of home and comfort never seems to stray from his father's side, and Wilbur thinks he's doing pretty okay here.

It does get lonely, though. Devoid of life, devoid of love, devoid of _family_.

But there isn't much any of them can do about it, either. 

(Not when their family's this broken. Not when one hates too vehemently, one hurts too badly, one thinks it's all his fault and one tries too hard to move on.)

They're a disassembled puzzle, Wilbur muses, as he floats mindlessly around in Phil's study, and their pieces are both scattered too far away to be recollected and too frayed at the edges to really fit.

* * *

Phil seems different, today. His shoulders are held stiffer. His steps are more purposeful.

Wilbur trails behind him as he paces around the room and ultimately stops before a simple calendar that hangs innocently on the wall.

The reminiscent look that Phil always has on when thinking about _them_ – them, family, four plus one – ripples across his features, and Wilbur _knows_.

Some things, Wilbur thinks, can't be fixed.

He also thinks his family is one of those things.

But the determined glint in Phil's eyes as he stares down the calendar sways him. Makes hope blossom in the middle of his chest.

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, and hovers behind his father's shoulder as said father circles the box marking the twenty-fifth of December in red marker ink. _Maybe_.

Phil puts on his dark green coat. Wilbur remembers shivering, remembers it being draped over his own shoulders, resting heavily on his back and swathing him in warmth.

( _"You look cool, Wilby," bright blue eyes – shining with adoration – peering up at him, his chest puffing with pride, his hands tugging on the coat to make himself look "cooler"._ )

 _Those times are gone_ , he chides himself, and continues to follow Phil.

His father is ready to go. His signature bucket hat fits snugly on his head and he has a backpack of supplies strapped to his back, but he stops by the door, attention caught. Wilbur takes a peek at it, and feels a sense of desolation pang right through the middle of his chest.

It's a photo of the five of them. Of course it is. Wilbur's holding an infant Fundy in his arms, cooing gently down at him – the image makes a fond warmth pool in Wilbur's chest – while Tommy sticks out a peace sign at the camera. Phil has an arm around Techno as he grins and Techno smiles a begrudging smile. 

_The old days_ , Wilbur recalls, _before the blood and the war and the wounds that never seem to close_.

Phil's jaw sets with determination. The door closes with a click behind him and he sets off, getting onto his horse in a swift motion and galloping away. Wilbur, rubbing away the tears blurring his vision, follows.

  
  


* * *

As expected, Techno's base is the first place Phil heads for.

It might just be because the older man knows the route by heart. He doesn't falter as he rides across plains, climbs up snowy mountains and locates that uncharacteristically quaint spruce house. 

Techno's voice calls out to him – them – before he can even knock.

"Name and business." Techno growls. Wilbur passes through the walls and looks at him.

A loaded crossbow is aimed directly at the door, shining with a telltale purple sheen of enchantments. The arrow's tip is covered with a layer of reddish-brown substance. Wilbur has seen enough of those arrows to know that the arrow has been coated with a potion of harming.

The man wielding the weapon is serious. His features look sharper than Wilbur remembers, his eyes a little more bloodshot and his eyebags a little more heavy. 

Wilbur descends, reaches out, touches his palm to his brother's cheek and wonders, _what happened to you?_

"It's me, Techno." Phil says. Techno's entire demeanour seems to relax. "Phil."

It isn't long before he tenses up again. "Is anyone with you?"

There's shuffling, and then a resolute "no".

Techno opens the door.

Phil moves in, a smile spilling across his face. Techno shuts the door and locks it.

"Hey," Phil starts, pulling out a chair by a table and sitting down. It's been a while since Wilbur has last seen him this content. 

Techno's lip quirks, ever so slightly. "Hey." He strides across the room, putting the kettle on. "What brings you here?"

Phil shrugs. He glances around the room. "Thought it was about time for a visit."

The kettle rumbles. Techno snorts, but there's no trace of ill intent. "Bull. What do you want?"

Phil is silent, for a moment. His eyes flicker from the rows and rows of chests to the view from the windows, then back to Techno. Wilbur can't help but think that he's stalling. "A family dinner," he says finally. "Christmas. Like we always used to."

 _Like we always used to_ , Wilbur thinks. He's thrown back to days of laughter and warmth and loud voices that he's known for all of his life. Techno freezes, and Wilbur wonders if he remembers, too.

"No."

Phil stands, his hands pressing against the table as he leans his weight onto it. "No?" His voice cracks on the word.

Wilbur knows his brother. Knows the way guilt lowers his gaze and knows the way dread weighs on his shoulders.

"You know how I am, Phil," Techno sighs, "and especially now–"

"It's especially _because_ 'now'," Phil's tone is clipped. They don't look at each other.

"I just…" Phil swallows, and his voice is smaller than Wilbur has ever heard it. "I miss _us_. The fo– five of us."

The kettle whistles. Techno presses his lips in a thin line. "I'll think about it."

  
  


* * *

Tommy's new place is next. 

Phil does not, in fact, know this route by heart. His steps are tentative as he passes through the swirling purple of the Nether portal, and his eyes dart from sign to sign to figure out which direction to go to.

 _He hasn't visited Tommy much_ , Wilbur realises. 

Phil traipses along the cobblestone walkway, carefully maneuvers himself over bumps of netherrack, and pauses before the new Nether portal. The breath he takes in is huge.

He steps in, and Wilbur goes through, too.

Tommy bounds up to them almost immediately.

"Da– Phil!" He shouts, voice loud against the silence of his area of residence. 

The smile Phil gives is heartbreakingly warm. "Tommy."

"You've come to visit!" Tommy says eagerly, skidding to a halt right before his father's feet. Wilbur notes, with a jolt, how his cerulean blue eyes seem a little dimmer, how his blonde curls are almost flat. "I thought you'd never come."

Phil reaches out and his hand sinks into Tommy's hair, ruffling it up a bit. Wilbur's brother closes his eyes and almost seems to lean into the father's touch. 

"Of course I'd come to see you," Phil murmurs, voice unbearably soft, "why wouldn't I?"

Tommy's lips, dry and chapped, part. "Do you promise to come and see me lots, then?"

Phil gives a watery grin. "Yeah."

Tommy's pulled into a large embrace, tears glistening on his lashes and his breathing coming in sniffles. Wilbur watches them, and his heart hurts.

"I've missed you, Dad."

"I missed you too. Sorry I took so long."

" _I miss you both,_ " Wilbur says, but the wind blows over his words.

Tommy leads them into his basha tent. It's a shabby little thing, really. Pathetic, in comparison with the elegance of Technoblade's cottage. A sleeping bag is aligned on the left, while the remnants of crafting materials lie in a heap in a corner. An ender chest, smudged with fingerprints and dented in places it shouldn't be, stands on the right.

The earth near the lower corner of the sleeping bag looks like it's been dug up and replaced several times. A corner of what seems to be a notebook peeks through the soil. Wilbur wonders what it's for.

"I'd show you all the cool new stuff I made around here," Tommy jabbers, "but it looks like a snowstorm's about to hit soon." Planting himself onto the ground, Tommy crosses his legs and hunches. Wilbur opens his mouth, the usual chide of _sit up straight, you gremlin_ already on his tongue, but he _remembers_ , and closes his lips so fast that he bites on his tongue.

Phil takes a seat on the floor opposite his son. "Aren't you cold, though?" He gestures to Tommy's current attire, and Wilbur notes the dark dirt stains spotting the blonde's thin shirt, the tears and rips in the cotton and the burgundy stains of– is that _dried blood?_

Tommy waves off the concern. Phil frowns. "Nah, I'll manage."

"Are you sure? You look–"

" _Anyway_ ," Tommy presses, his voice shaking. Wilbur then realises just how _pale_ he is. "You wanted to ask me something?"

Phil's brows furrow deeply. "I…" 

"Time's ticking, Phil!" Tommy rushes, "you wouldn't want to stay until the storm." He winces. "It gets… pretty rough in here."

The older man still looks troubled. "Okay…" He sucks in a breath, "I was thinking about holding a Christmas dinner, you know? Like old times?"

"Old times…" Tommy repeats. His eyes gloss over, and Wilbur feels his heart prickle. "Yeah. Old times."

Phil sits up straight, his brows raising in hope. "You'll go, then?"

Something seems to occur to Tommy. "Isn't your house in L'Manburg, though?" He says slowly. There's a conflicted look in his eyes. "I…"

"Don't worry about that," Phil assures, retrieving a rolled up map from his backpack and pressing it into the other's awaiting hands, the way he'd done to Techno, just days before. "I have another place that's not in L'Manburg."

"Oh," Tommy says, "I'll…" he clears his throat, and his words come out more confident, "I'll go."

Phil grins, wide and genuine. Something in Wilbur mends. "Sweet."

* * *

Fundy comes last. (A nasty voice – that sounds familiar, that sounds like another _version_ of him – in Wilbur's head whispers that _he always does, and in more ways than one_.)

He's fishing by the docks, when Phil finds him, and Wilbur thinks a piece of him falls apart.

"Hey, Funds," Phil says gently, laying a firm hand on Fundy's black leather jacket.

Fundy brightens. (The last time Wilbur had seen him that happy around him, he'd been a little kid, weaving daisies into crowns – by the river that meant so much to the both of them – and placing them atop Wilbur's head. _Happy times_ , Wilbur thinks, longing pushing at his throat.) "Phil!"

Phil finds a place on the wooden-board dock next to his grandson and sits down, legs barely dangling across the water surface. "Fishing again, huh?"

Fundy hums in affirmation. He shifts closer to Phil, and the things Wilbur would _do_ , to get to be so willingly, physically close to his son, to be able to bump their shoulders together and cast their lines into the water at the same time. Wilbur turns, and notes how in the bucket of fish Fundy has collected, not a single one is salmon.

"How would you like to come to a Christmas dinner?" Phil suggests. Fundy tenses. "A family dinner."

"Family dinner?" Fundy echoes. His gaze is fixed on the horizon. "With me?"

Phil turns frantic. "You don't _have_ to come, of course. It's completely optional. Just– It would be great if–"

"No, it's not that," Wilbur watches as Fundy's hold on the fishing rod tightens. "I just–" He stops there and swallows.

Silence engulfs the area. There's nothing except the sloshing waves and occasional cawing of the birds, but Phil doesn't push. Wilbur has always admired his father's patience in people — it's unrivaled, unparalleled, and this is only a small demonstration.

"Can I…" Fundy begins again, his voice so soft that it _hurts_ , "can I really still be considered family?" He glances at Phil. The motion, hesitant and small, chips away at the most tender part of Wilbur's heart. (The part reserved for Fundy.) "Even after everything I tried with… with Eret and everything with W–"

Phils arm hooks itself around Fundy's shoulders. Wilbur wants so desperately to touch, to _hold_ , but he can only watch, silent, as hot tears spill from his son's cheeks.

"You'll always be a part of my family, Fundy," Phil says, voice raw. 

The fishing rod is set aside with a clatter as Fundy leans into Phil's hold, leaning his head of tangerine hair onto the older man's shoulder.

Wilbur floats above their heads, and he _wants_.

* * *

Weeks pass, and Wilbur finds them gathered by Phil's cottage — it's a small, secret one. One that Phil has never told anyone about. Built in the middle of an undiscovered spruce forest around L'Manburg, Phil is the only – living – person to know of its existence. 

Wilbur had watched him build it, had watched him gather the wood and nail the planks and fill in the window panes with glass, had watched him stuff the couch with wool and carve the tables and chairs from logs. It's a nice little place. Wilbur thinks he would've enjoyed it a lot more as a living person.

"Fundy," Tommy greets his nephew, nodding to him across the table.

Fundy shifts. "Tommy."

Phil brings out the food — roasted chicken with sweet berries on the side, a pot of steaming pumpkin soup, a mixed vegetable dish of carrots and potatoes and mushrooms.

It looks good. Brings back memories. Wilbur has missed his father's cooking.

"I'd forgotten how good your cooking is, Phil," Fundy says, polite.

Phil smiles, the warm, fond smile he'd used to give Wilbur whenever he'd finished performing a song. "Thank you."

Tommy looks at the food, quiet. His shirt is the same one that Wilbur had seen him wearing weeks ago, more faded but only slightly less stained. It looks as if Tommy had actually attempted to clean it up, a bit. The little holes in them still reveal pale patches of skin, though.

Wilbur's reminded of how much his youngest brother has changed. Normally, he'd be making tribal noises with his cutlery and scarfing food down his mouth as soon as it's set on the table. Now, he looks brooding, almost _hesitant_ to reach for his meal.

Phil glances to the door. Wilbur does too. There's one more invited guest that hasn't arrived.

They pause for a moment. Phil stares intently at the door, as if doing that will magically summon his eldest child, and then sighs.

He gestures to the food, looking older than Wilbur has ever seen him. "You guys can–"

There's a knock on the door.

He lights up. Wilbur pushes off the ground and hangs in the air, an almost sad smile crossing his face. Techno's always been the favourite.

Phil walks up to receive his son, unflinching even as a cold gust of air enters upon the opening of the door.

Techno stands in the doorway, his crimson cloak blowing messily in the wind.

The sound of a chair screeching over wooden-board floors fill the room.

"Hey," Phil beams warmly. "Glad you could make it–"

"You didn't tell me that _he'd_ be here." Tommy seethes, taking a step back.

In the air, Wilbur sighs. Why hadn't Phil seen this coming?

Phil frowns. "He's your brother, Tommy–"

"I don't _care_!" Tommy bursts out. His eyes are alight with a rage-fuelled fire. He turns his magma-hot glare onto Techno, and Wilbur feels something in him break. "He stopped being my brother a while ago."

Is this how his family is going to shatter, then? Even with how much effort Phil had put in to piece them back together?

Techno doesn't respond. Wilbur wonders if his face looks just as undeterred as it usually is, beneath the mask.

Phil looks pained. "Techno, don't listen to–"

"He's right." Techno says. Wilbur, frustrated of not being able to do _anything_ , touches down onto the wooden-board floor and stands in front of him. His hands go onto Techno's shoulders and he tilts his head down at him the way he always does, when the both of them are talking. 

" _No, Techno, please,_ " he tries, staring into his brother's eyes behind the mask as earnestly as he can. Maybe if he tries hard enough, his intentions can be conveyed. " _Stay._ "

Techno looks straight through him. "I shouldn't be here."

"Glad you know," Tommy snarks. Wilbur whirls on him and wishes, for the umpteenth time, that he could be heard. Maybe then Tommy would shut up.

Techno's posture never falters. His shoulders remain just as set as they always are, his chin held just as high as it always is, and his crown never slips. He looks like how he did before Tommy sought him out to fight for Pogtopia — mighty, regal, but alone.

"I'm…" Techno starts stiffly. He hesitates. Wilbur's heart drops. Techno never hesitates. "I'll just… go, then."

His cloak flaps in the wind and his boots crunch against the snow as he turns.

"Wilbur wouldn't have wanted this." Phil says. His voice is quiet, but the words ring in the air between them.

Tommy freezes. Techno stiffens, and Fundy looks away. Wilbur hurts.

Techno inhales, audible and deep. The words that emerge from his lips next seem to hold the weight of the world. "Wilbur isn't here anymore."

Phil slumps. Tommy closes his eyes. Fundy's own have a faraway look in them.

Techno continues to walk away, and nobody stops him.

" _Come back,_ " Wilbur calls, floating after him gently. His voice cracks. No one hears it.

* * *

"Just spit it out already, Phil." Tommy's eating utensils clatter onto the table. 

Phil's face is impassive. "Spit what out?"

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Tommy sneers. Fundy's ears flatten against his hair as the younger blonde's chair scrapes across the floor. Wilbur realises, with a sickening feeling in his stomach, that Tommy's old self has shone through, in some twisted way.

"You're mad that I chased away your _precious little Technoblade_ , your pink-haired _favourite_ –"

"I never said that."

Tommy's laugh is loud and harsh. "You _mean_ it."

Phil sighs. The lines on his face seem to etch deeper into his skin. "I don't mean _anything_ , Tommy. Now if you'd just sit down and–"

"No." Tommy's shaking his head. There's a wild look in his eyes. "I've had enough of this shit. It's always _Technoblade this_ and _Technoblade that_ ," he steps away from his chair, closer in the direction of the door. "Only _Dream_ gets me."

A cold shiver rolls down Wilbur's spine. Phil's brows furrow. " _Dream_?"

"I never should have come here," Tommy mutters to himself, dull blue irises glazed over, "what would _Dream_ think? I've left him all alone." He stops. A realisation seems to creep up on him. "What if he leaves _me_ alone, too?"

Phil reaches out. His eyes shine with concern. "You'll never be alone, Tommy, not while I'm–"

"No!" Tommy draws back. Wilbur feels his eyes sting. "No! You don't understand! Dream…" A forced grin cracks his lips, and a deep ache reverberates through Wilbur's soul. "Dream is my _only_ friend."

And it's back down the rabbit hole.

Tommy spins and yanks the door open, running as if his life depends on it. Fundy sits, stunned, by the table, while Phil races to the doorway. Bits and pieces of snow make its way into his blonde hair.

"Tommy!" He yells. The other has long since disappeared into the blurry distance.

"Tommy…" Phil says again, weaker and shakier. His fingers grip the spruce doorway. "Tommy…."

The wind howls. Phil looks tired. Fundy is silent.

 _Family_ , Wilbur thinks, and almost wants to laugh. He wonders how it came to this.

  
  


* * *

Phil breaks, in the middle of the night. When Fundy has left, in his little cottage with the spruce boards and dark oak furniture. 

He breaks, curled up into his sheets, and his sobs rattle the mattress.

Wilbur floats down and sits on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing Phil's back in that old, familiar way that Phil had used to do to him, way back when he had nightmares. Back when their roles had been reversed. 

" _It's not your fault,_ " he whispers softly. " _You've tried your best._ "

His motions dissolve beneath the moonlight and his words are lost in the cold air.

That night, to the rest of the world, a father cries alone.

* * *

Some things, Wilbur thinks, can't be fixed.

His family – an exhausted father, a hurting son, a younger brother desperate for love and an older brother who blames himself too much – is one of those.

**Author's Note:**

> saw "family" in the prompts and my brain went Sbi Angst Bitch and here we are
> 
> say hi on twitter ily thank you for reading [@vrealitical](https://twitter.com/vrealitical)


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